


bohemian like you

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, self-indulgent music plugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>grimmy is obsessive of his record collection and harry thinks it's funny to wind him up. he does this through the magic of suggestive album titles. (detailed sex on records would ensue if i were brave enough to write smut.)</p><p>edited: i finally got around to adding the italics this fic orginally had so it will make like 200% more sense now probably</p>
            </blockquote>





	bohemian like you

**Author's Note:**

> this basically stemmed because i was meant to be studying and instead i listened to a fuckload of music and grimmy's radio show. it isn't exactly new, already being on my livejournal account but oh well. title taken from the dandy warhols song of the year 2000, which coincidentally, i am still stuck in.

  


it was not often that one found themselves in the company of a universally known pop star – and like, a  _proper_ pop star, one even your mum knew – but over the years, thanks to attractive friends with no real claim to fame apart from the ability to look hot even in a potato sack, and that weird yet wonderful fact that  _wow i’m sort of famous too holy fuck_ , nick had grown used to being constantly surrounded by the rich and the famous.

and he loved it. honestly.

he loved the cameras and the parties and the champagne which turned to cheap vodka by four AM and waking up with a raging hangover in some shithole in camden and all the stupid fuckable model types and the subsequent scathing  _sun_  articles about alexa’s drunk traipse of shame or pixie’s new tattoo and the cigarette-and-coffee stained celebrity glow which he could eternally bathe in.

it was home. it was  _him_.

but accustomed as he may be to dining with gaga or partying with london’s elite (and not to mention his hardly dignified repertoire of photos with celebrities to rival that stalker sarah’s), there was still something brand new about waking up to  _harry styles_ of  _one direction_  lolling about his flat like it was his own.

it pretty much was, these days.

this morning he was inspecting nick’s meticulously organized and admittedly ostentatious record collection, steaming earl grey in one hand and dre's  _the chronic_ in the other. vibrant records surrounded him, scattered carelessly round his crossed legs like an amateur demon summoning. ignoring the niggling bark of  _there is order for a reason, styles_ , nick ambled over to join him.

‘morning,’ he yawned, with a vague salute in harry’s direction. he’d wisely chosen not to check himself in the mirror, fearing an uncontrollable bout of morning hair (or abstract styling, as henry kindly liked to call it.) from harry’s expression, it was clear it had been a rough night hair-wise. ‘that bad?’

he ran a hand through the deflated quiff self-consciously, a failed attempt at flattening it or whatever, before feeling warm fingers pry it away.

‘stop,’ harry scolded, ‘i like it that way.’

nick gave him a cross-eyed look, a much-practiced hybrid of  _you’re a twat_  and  _well thanks, i guess_ before sighing and dropping his hand. harry was still watching him with this weird, almost fond look on his face that if he didn’t distract him immediately, nick could not be responsible for mauling him all over his darling records.

(which would be pretty hot, actually.)

prizing the image of a sleep-warm and pliant harry splayed out over a-  _wait, was that a barry manilow record? good god,_ away from his already misbehaving imagination (‘unsettling’, a primary teacher had once called it) he concentrated instead on the records on the floor. grimes’  _visions_ , the cure’s  _kiss me, kiss me, kiss me_  and frank ocean’s  _channel orange_  were amongst them.

now harry had his eye on the latest xx, giving it a once over before dropping it carelessly on some old bloc party. nick winced. as pretty as he may be, this was simply unacceptable. harry was just reaching for the smiths’  _hatful of hollow_  when nick slapped him on the hand, unable to restrain himself.

‘harold, i say this with the utmost respect, but if you fling one more of my babies around like you did with  _coexist_ , i will be forced to act upon unforgiveable whims.’

harry looked up, stupid green eyes wide in surprise. it was quickly replaced by a knowing smirk, his lips curling upwards tauntingly. he looked absolutely filthy, the saucy minx. ‘what kind of unforgiveable whims?’

any other time nick would have been keen as mustard to play the ‘unforgiveable whims aka me fucking you senseless’ game, but that wasn’t exactly romantic, and this was, actually, a rather serious issue. he said gravely, ‘well, punch you in the groin for one.’

he didn’t miss the hesitant glance aimed at his fist, and the doubtlessly snappy rebuttal hot on harry’s tongue. nick had a notoriously weak right shot, so it would be along the lines of ‘don’t be daft, what good will that do?’ and in all fairness, he would have a point. practically, having a faulty hand would be no good at work, as half his job was fiddling with knobs and levers (‘what kind of knobs?’ ‘not yours, henry’); and well, for the  _other_  stuff, being a wrist invalid would surely bring a damper on the whole ordeal.

not to mention making a decent cup of tea.

(this was, of course, assuming that harry had some sort of invincible cock of steel, but nick was about 85% sure that wasn’t the case, so the matter remained grey.)

instead, and to his great surprise, harry mumbled a passive ‘that’s ambitious’, before making a show of very, very gently putting the record back on the shelf. although he was only doing it so exaggeratedly to please him, this was how nick usually handled his records. he chose not to mention this, and prattled on further.

‘it’s in the wrong place.’

harry raised an eyebrow, long delicate fingers fishing the record out once again with considerable effort. ‘where’s the right place?’

he nodded towards the last shelf, assorted records slanting from their missing brother. he’d mentally labeled it ‘w-z’ last time he’d had a kind of existential crisis and rearranged his entire record collection. it had taken three days and seven bottles of merlot.

now that he thought of it, it was terribly dull to put one’s records in alphabetical order. back in his youth, (well, three years ago) he’d tried by colour, but with an overwhelming majority in the  _shit there’s like fifty-six billion shades on this one_  and several  _who the fuck makes their album cover a 16 th century tapestry of pigs being slaughtered?, _that hadn’t lasted long.

a particularly ambitious one, embarked on with the help of the ever faithful fincham, had been genre. fairly simple on principle, but a nightmare when you came up against sub-genres such as baroque pop mod revival trip-hop electro-grime jazz-metal grungecore. admitting defeat after a cuban country dupstep dilemma and  _why is this even a problem what are you doing listening to cuban country dupstep in the first place grimmy look at your life look at your choices_ , that too had been abandoned.

by now harry was watching him expectantly, probably awaiting a reward of dog biscuits for his excellent behaviour in putting the record back in its designated place. all nick had were stale jammy dodgers and a pint of foul-smelling milk, so prizes had to be found in alternative places.

‘you’re quite particular about these, aren’t you?’ harry mused, a worrying glint in his eye. he was trailing his fingertips daintily along the stiff ridges of the records, pausing occasionally when he saw one he liked.

surely that was not meant to be so arousing.

‘if you had a collection as brilliant as this one, you would be too, love.’

harry nodded vaguely, brow furrowed in concentration as he searched for a certain record. deciding this was the right time to start cleaning after him, nick reached for the closest. it was does it offend you, yeah?’s  _you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into_ , and entirely too close to home.

scrambling for a different one, he was instead presented with harry’s first find. nick raised an eyebrow. ‘why are you giving me  _if you’re feeling sinister_?’

harry shrugged, glossy chocolate curls bouncing before his eyes. it took all of nick’s floundering self-restraint not to reach out and rake his fingers through them. ‘it’s my favourite belle and sebastian album.  _judy and the dream of horses_  is a top song.’

now he couldn’t hold back the impressed expression any longer, however sassy he was feeling. luckily nick lived under the philosophy that an opportunity not spent throwing shade was an opportunity missed. ‘i’ve always preferred  _get me away from here, i’m dying_.’

harry shot him a silencing look, before reaching for a different record. any complaint about disorder was quelled by the sight of his – no,  _nick’s_  shirt – riding up to expose some taut hip line, and immediately his thoughts swerved to something much more sinister that they could be doing.

not for the first time, nick seriously hated himself for being so weak in the eye of beauty. his records were the equivalent of children to him, after all, and right now he was being an appallingly neglectful mother. (or father, whatever.)

seeming to find what he was looking for, harry emerged once again from the shelves with the familiar flat square in hand. this time it was a battered dirty gold ep,  _hidden treasure._  he tried his best not to think too much into what that was insinuating. there was hardly anything hidden about harry, anyway, the bloody exhibitionist.

nick couldn’t say his friends hadn’t warned him. henry had basically wet himself when he realized there was something more to nick and harry’s, er, totally platonic friendship. it had seemed lucky at the time to get away with only one cradle-snatching dig.

aimee had been only slightly less awful. (‘you’re dating a teenager, grimmy’ ‘we’re not dating, you div’ ‘alright, let me rephrase that, you’re fucking a teenager, grimmy’ ‘that’s hardly romantic’ ‘oh, so this is romantic then?’ ‘no, it’s just… he’s just, you know…’ ‘young? nimble? enthusiastic?’ ‘no, he’s lovely and stuff’ ‘lovely? christ grimshaw, you are so gone’)

but she was wrong.

obviously.

in fact, he was so completely  _not_  gone on harry tosser styles, all tosser-y with his tosser elbow-patched jumpers and tosser singular dimple. his tosser love of vintage cars and scratchy tosser laugh and tosser taste in television like jezza kyle because  _but grimmy, there’s always some bint who slept with the father and his uncle and then jezza sits on the step and oh my god remember when that chav chucked the biscuit in the skinhead’s eye_ and if he now had it recorded for the next three weeks it was absolutely nothing to do with the fact that nick couldn’t say no to said tosser.

just like he’d told pixie and alexa. (he liked to imagine that they hadn’t both honked with laughter, pix almost choking on her fajita – ‘oh, er, i mean, like, yeah, you can totally tell it’s really casual. like, you don’t act married  _at all_.’)

which they didn’t. clearly.

(right?)

annie had been the most sympathetic of his so-called friends, and such was the reason why she was getting a slightly nicer christmas present than the rest of them. her words of wisdom included: ‘you better be ready, them youngsters are horny as fuck.’

but nick knew that already. he had, after all, been eighteen himself, though nowadays that felt like the middle ages. he’d never been as musically ignorant as harry though, who was now clutching oasis’  _what’s the story, morning glory?_  like it held the secrets of the universe.

‘ _live forever, champagne supernova, don’t look back in anger_. countless unforgettable britpop classics which will be eternally butchered by misunderstood youth that can only play three-strings and sort of know the words to  _wonderwall ._  first record i ever bought.’ he said helpfully.

harry smirked. hopefully not in a  _god, you’re old._   _why do i associate with the elderly?_  way. nick was too young for a denture, which meant he did not qualify as ‘old’.

(although he wouldn’t say no to one of those chairs you could adjust into your staircase that just carried you up them, because, come on, six out of seven nights he came back to his flat absolutely shitfaced, and three out of those six nights he woke up curled in a ball at the foot of the stairs. he’d even placed a ratty blanket there in case. if it had been used more than his expensive egyptian cotton duvet in the past few weeks, then that was just tragic on too many levels.)

‘don’t you sing it sometimes?’ nick added as an after-thought. he had a vague recollection of ‘accidentally’ watching an episode of the x-factor years ago or some youtube video with harry and his mates looking like shipwrecked plaid pirates on a beach when he’d (actually) been searching for the new florrie track.

‘sometimes,’ harry agreed, fiddling with the hem of nick’s shirt, ‘do you like it?’

he scoffed. ‘not nearly nasal enough to live up to my gallagher-tinged expectations.’

this time it was harry’s turn to scoff, but he shot nick a smile to show he wasn’t offended. and like, right there, fucking  _that_  was what nick liked about harry so much. how he didn’t take himself as seriously as any of them other popstars. nick had dressed like lily allen in her chavvy days to make his friends laugh and regularly humiliated himself at karaoke by choosing the most thug song possible, and only half because he genuinely liked it. but harry, who had a voice sexier than satan, would get shy and giggly when some drunkard shoved a microphone in his face and begged him to croon  _careless whisper_. he’d curl into nick’s shoulder and be all sweet and bashful and look up at him with eyes big love-crumbs or some cummings shit and-

well, he guessed in a way he sort of was gone on harry.

but that didn’t excuse what on earth he was doing to him right now. between every dazed and confused moment harry was bringing up a new record, and the common theme of this morning happened to be: suggestive. next he’d be singing  _your body is a wonderland_.

no, he  _was_  singing  _your body is a wonderland_. this required direct action.

‘oi, enough of that! you may be obscenely pretty and in a boy band, but that doesn’t excuse the presence of john mayer in my home.’

this was obviously the wrong tactic, as the moment he said it, nick knew it had been a horrible mistake. by the shit-eating grin harry was flashing him now, this was not going to be forgotten easily.

‘you think i’m obscenely pretty?’ he giggled, (fucking  _giggled_ ) eyes twinkling jovially. just to torture him further, harry spread out, impossibly long torso turning into equally lengthy limbs. the angle he was sitting in permitted a glance into the curve of his thigh, and wow, this was not the time to be getting a hard-on.

rather, nick shrugged, sipping on harry’s now-lukewarm cuppa. it was sickeningly sweet. ‘you know you’re obscenely pretty.’

at least harry had the decency to blush. biting his lip ( _fuck_ ), he glanced from nick to the stacked shelves. deciding on something which could be come to absolutely no good, he set about grabbing various records and stacking them in a pile beside him. nick grimaced as they reached a precarious height, wobbling before harry reached around them protectively, giving nick a knowing look. he tried to not let it tug on his heartstrings (and failed).

finally, harry pulled the records onto his lap, half-crawling towards nick to show him the load.

‘we’re going to play a game.’ he stated, eyes clear and face straight. he looked like a perturbed kitten.

and like nick was going to say no to that.

‘i’m going to show you a record, and you’re going to tell me what you think of it. simple enough, no?’

nick nodded, wondering where this was going. nowhere good, knowing harry.

with a final smirk, harry pulled out the first record. the cribs’  _men’s needs, women’s needs_.

nick could just imagine aimee now, (‘what he means is  _harry’s needs’_ ); and annie (‘horny as f-u-c-k.’)

‘clattery and noisy, but like, good fun. ryan jarman has a good yell or uh, summat. very libertines-ish, but punkier, er…’ what had started off as fun, and essentially what nick lived to do – critique music, his most annoying habit – was becoming increasingly difficult with harry pouting like that. how his lips were even that pink was an utter fucking mystery to him, and now that he was licking them like they were sugar-coated was really not on.

‘hmm’ was all harry said, before moving onto the next one.

in that particularly non-descript movement, nick was transported from his cluttered lounge to a scene straight out of  _alien_ , everything brighter and hypersensitive. harry was immersed in sparkling specks of dust, the muted yellow light of the typically english and drizzly morning shining down on his mussed and silky waves like a washed out halo. nick’s shirt was hanging baggily upon harry’s torso, revealing glimpses of pallid chest and collarbone, lilac love bites scantily dotted across the smooth expanse of skin. they looked even duskier in this shimmering realm, and nick pulled together every last surviving ounce of his rapidly deteriorating self-discipline to not lick them dark again.

(he’d never been the possessive type, but with harry looked so utterly delicious marked in his passion, nick couldn’t say he minded one bit.)

the next record revealed was  _gimme some_  by peter, bjorn and john.

biting back a comment on his lacking skill in the art of subtlety, nick did his best to ignore how harry felt it necessary to be flexing his slender fingers all over his record. it would be covered in finger prints now (or, at least, he liked to pretend that was what was bothering him.)

‘some great tracks on that one, very upbeat and-‘ harry had now moved his index finger between his lips, lighting sucking on it and keeping eye contact with nick the entire time. ‘-pounding.’

harry grinned, immediately flipping over the next one. years of popstarring about had obviously trained him in the art of the flawless poker face, as it was with nothing but a faint twinkle in his eye that he watched him recognize the barren custard cover of arctic monkeys’  _suck it and see_.

nick almost hissed.

if henry could see him now he’d better be giving him a standing ovation, because to not grope the fuck out of that stupid curly gremlin was becoming impossible. drawing in the rather unappealing thoughts of alex turner’s quiff and that ridiculous comb were almost enough to settle his raging hormones, and nick managed a half-hearted ‘some decent stuff, but nothing on their back catalogue’ before choking on thin air.

completely aware of his affect on nick, harry gave an almost sharkish smile and shrugged. ‘i quite liked it actually. no  _whatever people say i am, that’s what i’m not_ , but what is? that hellcat one was a cracking tune.’ but aware this would give nick a chance to recover and debate, he moved right along. there were only two records left.

the penultimate was muse’s  _black holes and revelations_.

_ fucking christ. _

‘you can’t be serious?’ he seethed through gritted teeth. maybe he  _was_  too old for harry; after all, nick was about to burst out of his skin right now. ‘first you mess about with all my children and now you present me with goddamn muse?  _black holes_?’

‘and revelations.’ harry finished, far too smugly. he was smiling so hard his eyebrows were lost beneath his fringe. it was oddly endearing.

to stroke at nick’s ego, at least harry wasn’t expecting it when he pounced upon him, pinning him down to the hideous turkish carpet finchy had presented him as a joke last easter. he still hadn’t got around to burning it.

‘you’re insufferable,’ he muttered against harry’s neck, raking his teeth against his jutting collarbone. beneath him, harry moaned, shivering at the contact. pulling him up by the scruff of his shirt, he licked his way into nick’s mouth, warm and welcoming and tea-flavoured bitter. upon release, it was through shaky breaths that he managed to whisper into nick’s ear:

‘there’s one more record.’

reluctantly, nick rose, pressing his knees onto harry’s thighs so that he couldn’t escape his clutches. with a last nip at the nape of his neck, he steadied himself. ‘go on then, curly, give us the final record.’

‘drum roll, please.’ harry chirped, smiling sweetly up at him.  _trust harry to be able to look positively fuckable and cute as a button in one expression_. he busied himself drumming his fingers on harry’s now exposed abdomen, noting the firmness and trying to give a sort of drummers flair that he had no idea how to pull off.  _channel your inner helders_ , he thought resolutely,  _you are the agile beast_.

(‘you know, your stomach has surprisingly great acoustics-‘ ‘shut up, grimmy’)

‘ready?’ harry leered, a daze of pearly teeth and mahogany locks. nick swallowed back some ridiculous comment like  _your face belongs in the sistine chapel_ , concentrating instead on the puzzling record behind harry’s back. if it was something horrific like peter andre’s  _mysterious girl_  (henry’s, he swears) or  _the london philharmonic orchestra presents the phantom of the opera_  (‘ _phantom_ , seriously?’ ‘er, it’s my nan’s’), he would so totally cut off harry’s sex supply for like, two days, because nick did not need reminding that yes, he really was the most embarrassing human ever, and no, not even ironically.

(and then, well, if he wasn’t already gone before, then he sure as fuck was now, because harry didn’t just pull out the most wonderful record to have ever graced his collection, but also the most appropriate for everything nick had ever felt when he looked at harry, all crimson and sultry and  _rats, i may be in love with you_ and okay, admittedly things had taken a turn for the  _high fidelity_  but in this moment radio one could call offering him moyles’ breakfast slot and nick wouldn’t give a flying fuck until he had harry’s mouth hot and pliant on his and rutting against him like his life depended on it.)

‘it’s  _let’s get it on,_  because it’s your favourite so, like,  _lets._ ’ harry proposed, holding the marvin gaye record out to him like a talisman of his non-existent virtue.

as if nick needed any more persuading.

//

it would be later on in a tangle of naked limbs with potential carpet burn and a half-bent dre record digging into his spine that nick would become aware that he’d actually just fucked  _his_  harry styles of one direction into the sacred pile of records, and in that moment he would be truly grateful that indeed, they weren’t actually his children, because that could lead to unresolved trauma and subsequent child-psychiatrist fees nick had simply no desire to fret over when instead he could be cuddling his very mischievous and very handsome and  _very_  eager lithe young whippersnapper of a boyfriend which he would cheerfully admit he was totally, irrevocably and pathetically gone on (much to his friends delight.)


End file.
